He could have made it.
♦
Numbness.
It’s what I feel as I sit in the front church pew next to my parents, staring blankly at my brother’s coffin.
It’s closed casket, of course. Most of the victims of the Titans’ plane crash had closed caskets or were cremated, since many were already so badly burned. Identifications were done through dental records and rapid DNA testing. It’s grisly information, but I know it because my dad asked those questions to the FBI agent assigned to oversee victim identification and felt the need to share it with the entire family via email.
I personally could have done without that information, but my dad wanted it, not to ease his mind in any way but so he could use the drama during his interviews with news stations. He may have lost a son, and I’m sure he’s grieving, but he’s also in his element with the spotlight on him.
It’s why he let reporters with cameras into the service, so they could record how much he’s suffering after losing his precious son. He sits on the other side of my mom at the end of the pew, near the aisle, so he can make sure everyone sees the pain weighing him down.
Sitting in between me and my father is my mom. Brooks was the light of her life—or so I’ve heard her say on many occasions—and she sits with shoulders hunched, tears streaming down her face.
I try to put my arm around her—some measure of comfort—but she doesn’t seem to notice. She merely murmurs over and over again, “My son… gone. My precious boy.”
The Episcopalian service is disingenuous, given that we’re not a religious family in any way. It’s only being held here because my father wants the maximum effect. My mom weeps through the entire service. The Episcopalian priest talks about Brooks as if he knew him well, but it’s obvious they’re prepared remarks—I recognize my father’s hand in all the ways the world will be dimmer without Brooks’s greatness. Then it’s a painful ten minutes while I have to listen to my father eulogize my brother in a manner I find offensive.
Of course, he lists all the accomplishments of his second but favorite son. How well he did in college, getting drafted to play professional hockey by the Pittsburgh Titans and how his star shone brighter than he ever knew possible. He talks about what a loving and devoted son Brooks was and that he will never suffer a loss as great as this one. In fact, he tells the captive audience—while looking straight into a news camera—that he’s not sure he has anything to go on for.
I’m a little prickly about my parents’ behavior, for sure. My brother was indeed a great hockey player and a good person, and I miss him so much. But those blindingly overarching compliments are nothing but a slap at me. My father never misses an opportunity to raise Brooks up and try to knock me down at the same time.
My eyes remain dry throughout the entire service, just as they’ve remained dry since the moment my father called me a week ago with news of the crash. Too many emotions pulling me in a dozen different directions to even process the finality of what’s happened.
I’m resentful of my brother, and my father has made me that way. Over the last few years, my father managed to single-handedly destroy my relationship with Brooks, and he’s apparently removed my ability to grieve or mourn his loss. I know that’s some psychological, twisted, fucked-up nonsense, but there you have it.
I’m relieved when the church service concludes. I would leave now if I weren’t a pallbearer for my brother’s coffin. So I do my duty and carry him to the hearse. I ride silently in a black sedan along with my parents to the graveside. The entire time they clutch onto each other and stare blankly ahead without even bothering to look at me.
Not once have they offered me any solace. Not even a hug when I arrived home here in Ithaca to be with the family at this terrible time. Not even an acknowledgment that I lost something too.
When we arrive at the cemetery, I help carry the coffin to the waiting grave. The priest and other mourners file in around chairs lined up in front of the casket for the family. I choose to stand at the outer edge of the crowd, counting down the minutes until this is over.
The priest offers a brief prayer, and my father has a dramatic breakdown during the words meant to comfort.
Just before the casket is lowered, people file by to lay red carnations on top. I may have been mostly estranged from my brother, but I knew him well enough to know he would hate this.
My mother flings herself on top of the coffin and wails, and my father capitalizes on the drama by grabbing her from a semi-faint. All the while, the TV cameras are rolling because my father invited the reporters to this part of the service as well. I’m sure he’ll watch the footage tonight to make sure they got the best angles on his grieving face.
It’s all more than I can handle right now, so I pivot to leave. The day is cold and the brown, frost-covered grass crunches under my feet. I don’t bother heading toward the sedan that brought me here but intend to walk out of the cemetery and pick up an Uber for a ride back to my car at the church. I have to get back to Cleveland as we have a game tomorrow, and I’ve missed too much ice time as it is.
I make it no more than a dozen paces from the crowd when I feel someone at my side. A hand slips into the crook of my elbow, and I glance down to see my Aunt Bethany. She squeezes my arm and does nothing more than walk along with me silently.
When we reach the main paved road, I stop because I know she’s not going to walk all the way out.
She tips her head back, and her kind blue eyes stare at me. “Are you sure you won’t stick around for the gathering at the house?”
The look I give her is one of gentle chastisement. “Why would I want to suffer that?”
Bethany’s smile turns sad. But it’s also understanding, because she, better than anyone, knows the mental abandonment I’ve suffered from my parents over the last few years. “Because you love your parents, despite the way they are, and you loved your brother more than anything, despite what your parents did to the two of you.”
She’s not wrong about that. Sometimes I wonder how I still have care in my heart for two people who don’t seem to have it in return for me. Deep down, I know my brother never wanted any of this and is not to blame. And yes, I loved him more than anyone in this world, just as much as I resented him.
“I can’t.” I glance back at the crowd for a moment and see that my father has managed to get my mom settled back in the chair. “This is probably the last time I’m coming home.”
She nods and sighs. “Then I guess I’ll just have to come visit you in Cleveland.”
“The door is always open for you.” I bend down and kiss her cheek before wrapping my arms around her in a bear hug.
While I forgive her for being my father’s sister, I also understand why she plays the middle ground. Regardless, she’s been a surrogate parent for me, and there’s not much I wouldn’t do for her.
Except stay.
“I love you.” I release her from the hug, and we stare at each other for a moment. “And I’m lucky to have you.”
“You always have me, Stone,” she replies, patting me on the cheek. She then turns and heads back to the grave site while I walk as quickly as I can toward the cemetery exit so I can leave this all behind.